The Healer's Creed
by Gillian Phrynia
Summary: Naeharian, widowed by the taint that creeps amongst Askavi's Blood, will stop at nothing to eradicate it. Are people more likely to "R/R" if I TELL them to, I wonder?
1. Prologue

The battle rage coursed through his veins. Risen to the killing edge, Aravar slashed his way through the circle of warriors surrounding him. With a blaze of his Sapphire Jewel, he sent two flying, and vanishing the bow he had carried, called in a bladed stick. Before they had time to react, two of his pursuers had lost limbs.  
  
A tiny, unimportant thought tugged at the back of his mind. How long had it been since he had eaten or slept? Aravar pondered this with distant interest. At least a week, he thought. He'd been slashing his way through Askavi, riding the Winds and setting down wherever a city was large enough- and contained enough tainted ones-that he could make a serious impact, on his way to his objective.  
  
Running a hand briefly over his shorn scalp, the Warlord Prince moved fluidly and with deadly grace through the drills he'd done a thousand times. The screams of the fallen were music to his ears as he smiled a savage, feral smile. Calling in some daggers, he threw them at two more assailants, pausing for half a heartbeat to admire them as they buried themselves hilt-deep in the warriors' chests before calling the bladed stick in again.  
  
The blade sliced through flesh and bone like butter, though Aravar was barely aware of it. Two weeks or more at the killing edge had driven him slowly into the Twisted Kingdom, and all he saw was a blood-drenched tainted haze. As he hacked his way through the lines of guards, he finally saw his objective. The Queen of Askavi looked startled by all the commotion, swift as the battle had been. She had called in a gold-hilted dagger and her Opal Jewel shone, but she would be no match for him.  
  
Aravar could taste that bitch's blood.  
  
As he vanished the stick and called in his hunting knife, he ran closer to the woman who now stared wide-eyed ahead at the blood-crazed man before her. Raising the knife triumphantly, he prepared to plunge it into her.  
  
A jolt surprised him, and Aravar had fallen to his knees before he realised that a knife was buried up to the hilt between his shoulder blades.  
  
As the Warlord Prince's breath grew shorter, the bloodred haze retreated, and he thought clearly again for the first time in weeks.  
  
Naeharian! he thought in despair. A picture of his lovely wife swam before his eyes, her long, dark hair falling past her waist, amplifying her luscious curls. Tarian, their daughter, ran up and Naeharian embraced her, lifting the child up in her arms. She stared into the distance, looking troubled by something. Aravar would have worried if this vision weren't a figment of his dying imagination. As it was...  
  
*I'm so sorry, love,* he sent, hoping the thought had enough power to reach her. Pouring the last of his energy into it, he thought dismally that he wouldn't have much strength left to make it to demon-dead-he'd drained himself completely over the preceding weeks. With a sigh, he closed his eyes. Perhaps, once his spirit had returned to the Darkness, had rested awhile, he would be back.  
  
Perhaps.  
  
*****  
  
Naeharian Lartann surveyed her tidy home with pride. She'd had to attend to some people in the community earlier; as a Healer she took great pride in her work. "A Healer helps all who are in need," she said, reciting the first article of the Healer's Creed absentmindedly. It was well into the afternoon now, and golden sunlight streamed into her immaculate kitchen. Time for Tarian to get her lessons done, the Opal-Jewelled witch reflected.  
  
"Tarian!" she yelled, sticking her head out the kitchen window. "Come inside now, love!" The energetic bundle of activity that was her four-year- old daughter came bounding into the kitchen and into her mother's arms.  
  
And the something changed. The world seemed suddenly to be turned on its head, all rights turned wrong and all stability melting into spiritual quicksand.  
  
*I'm so sorry, love.* The familiar voice rang in Naeharian's head, replaced too swiftly by an odd silence. An empty space where there should have been someone-where her husband should have been! She'd tried to stop him from going off, tried to argue that this taint could not be fought...but...to no avail.  
  
Tears dotted her cheeks. "Aravar..." she whispered, holding her daughter close. After a moment, she put Tarian down. "Go read your book, love," she said softly. She sat at the kitchen table, head in hands. Thinking.  
  
"The taint cannot be fought," she mused, "but..." She stopped. "A Healer helps all who are in need," she whispered. This taint put many in need, to be sure. And the desire for revenge already bubbled in her heart. "Tarian!" she called, crisply. "Pack up your things, love. We're leaving for awhile."  
  
Naeharian was going to Heal the taint. 


	2. Enter Farivar

Naeharian had been walking for too long. She didn't want to ride anything stronger than the White with little Tarian in tow. The child hadn't had her Birthright Ceremony yet, and Naeharian drained herself quickly trying to shield the girlchild from the effects of the Winds' power. She didn't have the money for passage on a Coach--most of what she had had gone into new travel supplies for herself and for the child.  
  
"Mama! I'm tired!" Tarian whined. Stretching up chubby little arms to her mother, her lower lip trembled. "Carry me!" Naeharian sighed. She'd not make any more progress today. Best she find an inn and settle in for the night.  
  
*****  
  
"Listen!" Naeharian fumed at the innkeeper. "I have the money. Where, exactly, is the problem?"  
  
The White-jeweled Warlord shifted uneasily. "Begging your pardon, but...it's not safe for a woman and a babe to be staying alone. Especially a woman like...you." He gestured weakly at Naeharian, with her sweetly rounded curves. "There are evil men prowling, nowadays."  
  
The Healer stretched her dark, membranous wings out threateningly, baring her teeth as her golden eyes and Opal jewel both flashed in synchronicity. She stepped deliberately in front of her child, and loosened the knife at her belt so that it was halfway out of its sheath. "I am an Eyrien woman, Warlord," she said, her voice dangerously quiet. "I've been beaten since I could walk. My husband was the only man who never hit me when I didn't do something to his liking. Living like that, I learned a thing or two about protecting myself--and my little one. I have the marks, now give me the room before I slit your throat."  
  
The man recoiled in fear, but still stood firm, a quaver in his voice. "I'm afraid I can't give you a room without your husband present, madam," he said, clearly hoping the deference in his tone would be enough to save him. Naeharian sighed. She wasn't prepared to carry out her threat--she had only been trying to behave as she thought a warrior would in her place. She didn't even knw how to use the knife--Eyrien women didn't traditionally carry one. The knife itself was a kitchen knife, the sheath something she'd found in Aravar's belongings. The Healer was over her head here, and she knew it. "My husband," she began coldly, "is..."  
  
"Right here, darling," a voice at her side said smoothly. Turning in shock, Naeharian's eyes met those of a Warlord Prince. He urged her with those golden orbs to play along. "Sorry I'm so late, I just wanted to get us something to eat. I know that little..." he paused, clearly at a loss as he didn't know the child's name. Naeharian swept in.  
  
"Yes, love, Tarian is getting hungry," she said. "And you've brought her an apple! How thoughtful!" She proceeded to stuff this in the child's mouth just as the girl opened it to protest that this large man wasn't her father! Naeharian moved closer to the man, linking her arm with his. "This gentleman here," she said, indicating the innkeeper, "was thoughtful enough not to provide me with a room without you, dear. For my own protection, you understand."  
  
"How delightful!" the man exclaimed. "Warlord, I must thank you for your concern over my wife, but I'm here now." The masterful air with which he proclaimed his ownership of her at once rankled with Naeharian and brought tears stinging to her eyes. It reminded her of Aravar, that pompous prick of a husband shed loved so much. She thrust the money at the innkeeper, who promptly showed the "family" to a spacious room.  
  
Once the door was safely closed behind them, Naeharian turned on the stranger. "Thank you very much for your help. Now tell me who you are and get out before I gut you." She drew the knife and waved it in what she hoped was a threatening manner, edging Tarian over behind the bed to a safely out-of-reach spot.  
  
To her surprise, instead of taking the knife and beating her black and blue with his fists, the man laughed. "First," he said, drawing his own knife, "my knife would make short work of yours, and then short work of you. If I'm not much mistaken, that particular knife, while useful for taking those tiny bones out of fish, isn't going to help you much here. Secondly, my name is Farivar Nashara, and I'm not going anywhere."  
  
Naeharian hissed at him in frustration, then stopped as the Jewel fell out of his open shirt. He wore the Red. She was no match for him physically, and an Opal-jeweled healer was no match for a Red-jeweled Warlord Prince. With a sinking feeling, Naeharian realized she knew what the man wanted in return for helping her. "Not with the child in the room," she said firmly. "And there's no one to watch her." She cringed, fearing what he might do in his anger.  
  
He went rigid, golden eyes blazing. "You think that..." he trailed off, speechless. "You stupid bitch, you're just like all the rest of them after all!" With a deep breath, he calmed down. "I'm sorry," he said quietly. "I'm sorry. I just can't believe that you would think that of e."  
  
Her own temper roused, Naeharian snapped, "And why shouldn't I? Everyone else seems to think that of me! Except for Aravar..." she forced herself to look him in the eye. "Aravar Lartann. My late husband. Who was killed by this taint that creeps amongst us."  
  
Farivar's eyes softened. "I'm sorry," he said again. This boy was a little repetitive, Naeharian thought wryly. "I didn't know. How did he...?"  
  
"He tried to kill the Queen of Askavi," Naeharian snapped. "She's tainted too, in case you haven't noticed. I can't feel it on you, but that means nothing, so get out. I have a daughter to look after," she said, gesturing to wide-eyed, frightened Tarian cowering in a corner.  
  
Following her look, Farivar walked slowly over to the child. He reached into his pocket. "NO!" screamed Naeharian, but he ignored her. From his pocket, he gently drew a half-carved piece of wood, looking vaguely like a little girl. "I was bored today," he said, "so I was making this little dollie for my niece. You're much prettier than she is, though, so when it's finished, if you are very good and mind your mother, I'll give it to you." Tarian reached out and touched the little figurine shyly, then grinned up into the man's face as Naeharian stood speechless.  
  
"Thank the man for his offer, Tarian," she said firmly, "but he won't be with us when it's done. OUT!"  
  
"Let me stay until Tarian is asleep, at least," he said wheedlingly. "There are men who would do you two harm."  
  
"Fine," the Healer grumbled. "But not a second later.  
  
*****  
  
Tarian tucked safely into bed, Farivar unwrapped a bandage from around his thumb and looked wincingly at the festering cut below it. "What did you do to yourself?" Naeharian snapped grumpily.  
  
"Cut myself making the doll," he shrugged. "It's not too bad."  
  
"Nonsense," Naeharian snapped. "Anyone can see it's infected. Put this on." She practically threw save and a clean dressing at him, before supervising his application of both. "No, no!" She clucked her tongue and re-appropriated the supplies. "You're doing it all wrong, you incompetent oaf. Let me do it." Expertly, the Healer cleaned and bandaged the wound as Farivar grinned.  
  
"So you have a softer side after all!" he exclaimed laughingly.  
  
"Don't be foolish. Hush now, you'll wake the baby." She realized that her daughter now asleep, she could banish this man from her chambers. "All right, bargain concluded. Get out."  
  
"Now hold on a minute. You're not to be traveling all alone. Look, i'll be more of a help than a hindrance. You've seen that I'm good with your daughter, and if I'd wanted to rape you I could have done it tenfold by now. I'll be good, I promise." This last was said with an adorable little-boy expression on his face, and Naeharian laughed in spite of herself.  
  
"Fine," she said shortly. "But as soon as I decide you're not wanted, you're gone."  
  
"Agreed." he said amiably. "Now, where are you going?"  
  
"Ebon Askavi," Naeharian said quietly. "I'm going to tap the Winds." Seeing that hre audience had lapsed into shock, she began to tell her story.


	3. Duel to the Bone

A bubble drifted through the psychic Darkness, floating in and out, searching hungrily for a mind. Its last purpose. This bubble represented al;l the strength its creator could muster before finally returning to the Darkness, sacrificing his chance at making the transition to demon-dead. This bubble represented a desperate man's last hope. Confused, stray thoughts floated around in it, but it hungered with a single purpose--to find a host.  


  


A young Warlord, wearing a Sapphire jewel, was put on his guard as he sensed its approach. Taecivar Narhari gripped his bladed stick and looked around frantically for the source of this unexplained disturbance, unlike anything he'd ever felt. His jewel stretched out to the like power within it, and in that one swift moment he was lost. Mother Night, he whispered, before he lost consciousness.  
  
He woke to a sense of great mental confusion, snatches of alien throughts whizzing around in his brain. One of his fellow soldiers came up to him. You all right, Taecivar? D'you need a Healer?  
  
With a sudden sense of everything clicking into place, the two sets of conflicting thoughts resolved themselves into one. Mad golden eyes glanced up for a brief second before the stick sliced through the soldier's neck, sending the head crashing to the ground. My name, said the Warlord, voice rough with a slight hint of an insane, high-pitched laugh to it, is Aravar.  
  
*****  
  
Naeharian looked defiantly over at Farivar, the story of her life concluded in less time than she'd have thought possible. he said. He paused and raked his fingers through close-shorn black hair. he said, and the word was more of a resigned sigh than anything else, your husband went mad, and was killed, and now you, a Healer, have decided to singlehandedly Heal the Taint, bearing in mind that such a thing has never been attempted, let alone done. The last person to cleanse the Blood of the Taint had the power of six Ebony jewels at her disposal, so legend says. Her Birthright, the stories claim, was the Black. And it still almost killed her. You, however, have decided that you can do this. All alone. He looked at her sharply. Yes, that seems absolutely reasonable. Why anyone would think that it's a completely foolhardy and ridiculous plan, especially dragging a child into it, is beyond me.  
  
Tears welled up in Naeharian's eyes despite herself. Why should she care what this stranger thought of her? I was going to leave Tarian at my mother's house, she said sullenly. It's on the way. I'm not taking my child into the Black Valley. She looked tenderly over at her daughter's flushed, sticky sleeping face, and smoothed the shining dark hair that lay tangled on the pillow. I didn't ask for you, she said, suddenly flashing with anger again, and looking straight into Farivar's eyes. If you don't like it, get out. The second article of the Healer's Creed: a Healer must do everything in her power to heal the sick. The Blood are all sick. The force that runs through us, that binds us, is sick. I am a Healer, and I will do everything in my power to change that. I will not let this darkness that is not the Darkness smother us all. I won't let it smother her as it did her father. Her mother's tears splashed hot onto Tarian's face, and the girl stirred. Abruptly, Naeharian moved away, fingering the gold-set Opal hanging between her breasts.  
  
If I die in the process, Tarian will have a good life with her grandmother. My mother is a good woman, who lives well on a farm... she trailed off, stiffening.  
  
Flared nostrils failed to catch a scent that wasn't physical, a scent lost in the Darkness. Naeharian's lips parted in a half-gasp. It was like Aravar, this new psychic tendril curling slowly towards her, and yet strangely unlike. She must be imagining things. perhaps she was mad, she thought disconsolately.  
  
What is it? Farivar asked, his voice a razor's edge of concern.  
  
It's nothing, the witch across from him snapped. I just...I...I'm tired. Are you going to leave? This last had a forlorn-hope sound to it, and Farivar chuckled as he gave his answer.  
  
Do you know, he said wonderingly, you are the strangest little witch I've ever met. And I think you might just do what you set out to--if you don't kill yourself in the process. In any case, I'm not leaving you to the packs of ravening dogs that prowl this land.  
  
You're sleeping on the floor, came Naeharian's tart reply.  
  
I've slept on worse. His rejoinder matched her tone nuance for nuance. He grinned again. Perhaps this little witch had finally met her match.  
  
You're in charge of all our food, and you'll carry everything.  
  
Fine by me, I love unpaid physical labour.  
  
You have to finished the carving you made for Tarian.  
  
This time, he smiled softly. I had planned on it.  
  
A smile flitted across Naeharian's face so briefly that if he hadn't been looking for it, Farivar wouldn't have caught it. As it was, he was satisfied. she snapped. Get out while I undress.  
  
*****  
  
The Sapphire-jeweled Warlord laughed, a mirthless sound. Once he'd opened his mind to the other man's thoughts, a purpose had become so scintillatingly clear: to kill.  
  
Of course, after that, things got a little blurred. One doesn't die and float around in nothingness for awhile without losing a little cohesion. But one image was burned crystal clear into the Warlord's mind--the last image in the mind of a dying Aravar Lartann.  
  
the man whispered, eyes glistening with a golden hate. The rage that coursed through him had found its target.  
  
He was going to enjoy this.


End file.
